Broken.

Every once in a while, God brings me back to a place that I’d rather forget.  A past hurt, an old wound, or a deep regret that I thought was resolved, but apparently was just buried under other pleasanter memories.

And so it comes to a point where I have to face old demons that I thought I had slain long ago.  Demons that are actually much bigger and much more difficult to overcome.

I had to face my own brokenness.

Every woman probably has come to that point in her life where she feels unloved, unappreciated, and even worthless.  For some people it is a constant battle.  For others, it may exist in certain spheres of their lives, resurfacing only when specific conditions are met.  (Family reunions are a classic example.)

For someone who is generally well-liked by her peers, highly respected and admired by friends, and loved by a small circle of kindred spirits –  I struggle with self-worth and self-esteem whenever I have to deal with my own family.  Outwardly, I may seem to be the most confident and self-assured woman you know.  But when I have to deal with my family without the loving support of my friends, I turn into a veritable basket case.  I – quite literally – spend hours crying about how unloved and unlovely I feel. It is the wound that I carry with me, which I will probably carry to the day I die.

All I wanted was to feel like I mattered.  But in a family of seven (and an extended family of fourteen), I need to accept that I will inevitably be overlooked.  That my feelings or my presence are relatively inconsequential.  That keeping the peace and pretending nothing is wrong is the only option available.

As much as I want to be whole, I will have to remain broken.

Some days, though, I just wish I can be loved for my brokenness.